Long Way Round
by aurora-song
Summary: James Norrington, do you fear death? Yes, I breathed. I lied. Sometimes, the final prize of redemption isn't as straightforward to come by as we would like. Rated for themes and some language. WIP
1. Prologue

**Author's Note: **This is the product of a plot bunny that wouldn't go away and my own dissatisfaction with a certain turn of events in 'AWE'. I hope that posting this, and subsequent chapters as I finish and revise them, will push me into getting them out in a timely manner and, more importantly, actually finish this. ;)

Feedback is appreciated – both good and bad.

**Disclaimer:** I own none of the characters – everything belongs to their respective owners and, of course, Disney.

_**Prologue**_

I felt it then, cold and hard and unyielding. Death's breath slipped through me just as the blade did, splitting me in two it seemed. The world was slipping away as I edged to the floor, an unwelcome but comforting numbness washing through my limbs. I took a rattling breath, my lungs burning with the effort, and I tasted the sea. It was the salt and air and ocean that had been my life for so long. It was the taste of my duty and my accomplishment.

And the bitterness of my failure and fall.

Waves clapped against the ship, I could see them, just as I imagined a woman among them, tossed to safety. God I hoped so ... Was that her screaming? Or simply the familiar ringing of a tired man's conscience, never pleased and never satisfied? It didn't matter anymore, did it? I was finished. I felt it with every breath; with that pain that sprang from my heart and spread outwards; with the weight of my eyelids as they demanded to close, to end. To rest.

A rhythmic thump reverberated through the ship's planking and I vaguely recognized the ominous cadence. I felt them around me more than I was able to see; the crew's figures gathering, in barnacles rather than uniforms. He was there then, in an instant, looming and disgusting. Had I never laid eyes on him myself, I would have thought any man who believed in Jones and his Locker a fool.

I felt a surge of anger suddenly, unbidden, and I knew what was coming as he looked at me with those cold eyes, the very storms of the seas themselves resting in them, taunting me with transgressions past. I knew the question that was to be asked and I hated him for it. He lurched toward me with the ship, the stench of a watery grave hitting me.

_James Norrington, do you fear death?_

There was screaming again, the wind whistling with it, indistinguishable, and I thought of her; that last look, touch. The pain from the steel in my chest paled in comparison to that last and lonely image that would always haunt me.

A raving sailor was dragged to the side from behind the monster in front of me, his cries blending with those of a woman...

There were stories from my men, those who had faced this similar crushing weight of shaking off their mortal coil. Stories where their entire lives flooded their minds eye and it was nothing but a tumult of success and regret, love and loss. I stood by them in their sickbeds, the good soldier, captain, commodore, indulgent and benevolent; sympathetic but doubtful. I understood them now as what felt as though an eternity of thought froze me in that cold panic as I felt my very being slipping into the depths of Jones' eyes in front of me, carrying me down into the sea which I would no doubt be thrown into once it was all over.

_This promotion throws into sharp relief that which I have... not yet achieved ._

What I have 'not yet achieved'. It's nearly laughable. How silly it all was. I had never accomplished much, had I? I did my duty fairly and was promoted accordingly. And just where has it landed me? Dying on some godforsaken ship, run through by a man out of his mind, seeing the woman I love falling into the ocean as a last effort of escape, lap dogging under the command a charlatan, and carrying a bevy of regret and disappointment.

It had gone wrong somewhere, and the blame – as I fought for so long to deny – rested entirely upon my shoulders.

_James Norrington, what has the world done to you?_

Nothing I didn't deserve.

Another painful breath I felt to the pit of my stomach. My fingers twitched against my sword and there it was, the last spark of my life dying in my limbs in a helpless anger. I wished for death. I longed for it, because it would erase everything my life had become. Never a husband, nor a man my own Father who had called son proudly. An ex-officer, a former pirate and drunkard, and now a dying man.

Nothing I _don't _deserve.

It was a twisting injustice I felt then, coiling inside me as I fought for consciousness. That those whom I had let down – my men, those I was sworn to protect, Elizabeth, myself – would die with me on this ship. Any hope of righting my wrongs would die as well. It would have all been in vain. I'll never even know if she's safe...

_One good deed is not enough to redeem a man of a lifetime of wickedness._

But is a start. I deserve an eternity of this – an offer of damnation for one already damned. And by God if it allows me even a moment more, even one more small chance to fix the shambles I've created ... it is worth it.

_James Norrington, do you fear death?_

No. But I fear the prospect of dying a coward. I fear the thought of what awaits me should I give into the pressing darkness and all it's comforts. I fear _not _living with what I have done. I deserve the weight of my sins, and those whom I have abandoned and sacrificed deserve my efforts to honor them. No longer as a sailor, or an admiral, but as a man.

"Yes," I breathed. I lied. I felt the sweat breaking out across my brow, a death rattle rising inside me and the chill of it running down my spine, sparking against the wound, felt the blood rushing against my skin.

It was darker now, but I saw it. That ghost of a smile on his disfigured, tarnished features. Jones looked at me, smug and approving. I could feel the astonishment, could hear the quiet jeers of those of the Dutchman's crew whom I had just signed my soul away to in joining.

It's captain – my captain – lent toward me again, the floorboards creaking with the weight. A tentacled hand snaked across the the weapon still protruding from me, wrapping around it with a sickening sound. He pulled it from me, swift and brutal. Pain burned through me like fire, lights going off behind the lids of my closed eyes and I gasped, fighting down the urge to scream. I was thankful for it then as I felt the strength return to my body and I lifted a hand to clutch at the closing wound. Pain lets us know we are still alive.

"Now now," Jones began, turning away from me, "it only hurts the first time, _Admiral_. Though I doubt you'll be gettin' the luxury of such a title now, boy. Welcome to the crew."


	2. Chapter One

**Author's Note:** The majority of the story will take place in third person. The prologue (and perhaps epilogue) will be the only exceptions seeing as how first person serves the best there.

Also (as my own disclaimer lol), it's my belief that our ex-Commodore finds himself very guilty, very troubled, and very angry a lot of the time and about a lot of things presently. For the record let it show that I feel besides making a generally bad decision, he was acting out of what he felt his duty was by turning over the heart and – out of all of the characters – is the least in need of redemption. He, of course, sees things quite differently.

_**Chapter One**_

_**  
**_"I'll be takin' that from you now, if you don't mind. A _deck swabber_ has no need for such a sword as that." The amusement in Davy Jones' voice was barely contained, a deep-cutting mocking tone lacing his words as he peered down at the prone form of the former soldier before him, shirt torn to reveal a back criss-cut with the red and throbbing lines of a lash. Norrington felt his last shred of dignity, the symbol of his own long sought honor and station, slide against his side and out of his possession, too tired to do more than simmer in his own fury and resigned helplessness for the moment as he observed his Captain admiring the craftsmanship.

James had come to find himself the attention of a public flogging not more than an hour after his death and official post as crewman (rather than Admiral) – a new record, surely. His transformation into the hideous creature he had doomed himself to was instantaneous after his first gasp of new life; agonizingly slow, or so feeling that way, the process sprouted barnacles and a handful of small sea-life over his flesh, his very being feeling as if it had been flung to the very bottom of the ocean and brought to surface with everything that might make it's escape clinging to him. Unlike the other crew members, he was still recognizable under his new set of skin, hadn't yet become 'apart of the ship, apart of the crew' so devoutly as his peers were. He knew that over the passage of time he too would be lost inside his own undead existence, indistinguishable from the walking sea-ravaged corpses around him. Part of him welcomed it – another punishment for another crime.

It was humiliating nonetheless though, the surprise and pain of it happening on deck under the watchful eyes of his new superior Mercer. The latter's smug satisfaction over possession of the chest, key - and therefore the _Dutchman – _and a new underling he so fervently wished to exert rule over grew as he watched; a rush of power, a commission, and all it's previously unknown pleasures curling inside him.

Mercer bent towards James and began to speak as the last shudder escaped him, panting and leaning desperately against the nearest wall, rain hitting his skin with all the force of bullets. His body was done changing for now, but the burn of whatever unnatural force commanded him now left a lasting pulse of pain across his limbs.

"Seems we've come a right way down, haven't we, _sir_?" Sheer will and the part of him that felt as if he deserved to be chastised helped Norrington bite back the retort at his antagonizer that was on the tip of his tongue.

Norrington felt rough hands on him them – Mercer's - ripping off his uniform's jacket and vest, his body wordlessly complying. He had already flung his damnable wig into the sea as soon as he could stand, watched it float away with the waves with a bitter smile.

"Wouldn't want you to get any ideas," Mercer shot against James' ear. "You're a member of _his_ crew now, Mr Norrington." He smiled thinly as Norrington craned his head to look him in the eye, a set jaw the extent of his outward rebellion. "However," Mercer began again, "this ship seems to be my charge now, and seein' as how the good Captain and his men are on this ship, they seem to be under my jurisdiction as well." _He sounds far too pleased_, James thought, a wince escaping at a particularly brutal tug of his attire while he held an exasperated eye-roll in check. "And I think a punishment is in order. Aiding in the escape of prisoners," he tsked, "seems to be quite the pattern for you.

He directed a menacing finger at the nearest crew member, a spine of coral growing out of his back, a hideous and slack jawed grin spreading across his face as if he knew the order to come. "You there!" Mercer cried, "You'll do. Five lashes. And you'll best make them count."

Norrington felt a slow indignation rise within him; an eternity of isolation and service upon a damned vessel in the hopes of one day making right what he had so blundered was one thing; living under the rule of a man who so obviously had a penchant for misery – his own especially – was quite another situation; one the man inside of him, regardless of his own desire for redemption, dreaded having to live with.

But one that was necessary.

With the budge of Mercer, James pushed the rest of himself out of the hands that had held him, staggering into the middle of the deck as crew members crowded around him, two men striking out to grab him by the arms and hold him upright and in place, his soon-to-be punisher winding the braided leather band intended to be used as his instrument round his claw-like hands.

There was a rumble on the starboard side as the sound of wood being pounded on at a resolute pace rang across the deck, the presence of the _Dutchman's_ Captain silencing any whispers that might have followed in his wake. He spared Norrington a cold glance before stopping dead in front of Mercer, staring down at the man many heads below his own.

"I see your fantasy of control has extended itself to that of the discipline on _my ship_, Mr Mercer!" The tentacles that made up his beard twisted in a heated anger. To his credit, Mercer stood his ground, smiling. He patted his breast pocket, the chest key's metal pressing against the cloth there and in turn his hand – he exchanged a knowing glance with Davy Jones, one that made his attacker falter ever so slightly. "I think you're the one living under a delusion here. As long as this key's with me," - another pat to his pocket - "and those boys are in that cabin with all the spare bullets England can afford aimed at your one and only, you'll do as I say, and this ship will run as I say."

Davy squared his shoulders, turned and glared out of the corner of his eye at him before lashing out once more. "I'm sure Beckett," the word smeared with contempt, "would be interested to hear the amount of sincerity you seem to be taking on your new post." Norrington felt the undertone of the comment and for a moment wondered whether or not Mercer would be foolish enough to react to it.

"Mr. Beckett'll be pleased enough, I assure you, and my intentions are his." His words were neither defensive nor pleading; simply fact. He cast a scathing glance at Norrington before smiling humorlessly, "And I do believe he'll give whatever whelp of your's cut out the middle man here a badge of honor." James stared at him a long moment, long after Mercer had broken eye contact with him, and felt a surge of contempt. At Mercer for being such a naive, insidious villain; at himself for ever allowing his life to force him into his current position, no matter how much he deserved it presently.

"Besides," Mercer began, "I should think you'd like to uphold a certain standard on your ship. It's fair isn't it, his punishment?"

"Aye," Jones spat, "but you won't be the one serving it! But if you are so eager to see it done, perhaps you should do it yourself."

Mercer opened his mouth to speak again, but words – mumbled but audible – came from another direction first: "I'd gladly do it myself if it means you two would cease your inane babble."

The words were out of Norrington's mouth before he knew they were more than just a thought. Pain was still bleeding over his skin from his death and change, and his increasing exhaustion and sinking feeling of resignation to his current fate - guilt adding it's own weight to the burden on his shoulders - was obscuring all aspects of his better judgment.

All eyes were on him in that instant. His shoulders slumped in realization, eyes pinching shut, and cursed– his own stupidity, his own arrogance learned after so many years of being a commanding officer, his own damnable future.

"Come again, Mr. Norrington?" Jones' breath hit his cheek in an instant, stale and hot. James said nothing, meeting the monster's gaze through glassy, uncaring eyes. His beating was inevitable, his life guaranteed to last no matter what infliction he suffered; what was there to fear anymore?

Jones straighted his posture violently, his entire demeanor tightening in agitation. He motioned towards the man whose job he was taking, the long whip smacking into his hand, tentacle winding around the handle viciously. "You're no longer in the position to be making such remarks, boy! And you'll do well to remember it." The words were curt, bit out from between clenched teeth and barked into the wind.

Pain. Pain was to be welcomed now. It, as Norrington kept reminding himself, especially in that last lingering instant before the lash hit his back, let him know he was alive.

And so was how James found himself lying wet, cold, and bleeding in the brig of the _Flying Dutchman_ after his first night as one of the damned. No sword, no dignity, but still dripping with guilt and a promise to himself left unfulfilled. Tomorrow was another day – the first of many. Of thousands. Perhaps he would hear word of Elizabeth if he was patient enough, if she had made it, if at least one action of his had run a worthy course.

He held out his hand in front of him, flexed it, watching as the scales and string of seaweed covering it distorted, twisting over his skin and fingers.

_Nothing I don't deserve, remember?_


	3. Chapter Two

**Author's Notes** Sorry for the longer than usual wait. This chapter was a little more tricky because I needed to figure out just where I wanted to go and the pace I wanted to get there at.

I've decided that the canon set by AWE may be toyed with a little (as if I haven't already lol). I'm not gunning on rewriting the end of the movie, but I will change – tweak is probably a more fitting word – what I need too. Also, I will be leaving on vacation for Hawaii the 18th to the 25th. I'll try to get the next chapter out by the time I leave.

Special thanks to those who have set this fic on alert and/or reviewed.Your comments are the icing on the cake.

_**Chapter Two**_

The next morning found James Norrington in severe need of a drink. The night had been spent sulking, pacing, and more often than not feeling as though he had gone mad. He'd shut his eyes but once, sleep more unbearable than his hours spent waking. His conscience had deemed him worthy to a private showing of his deepest regrets, a reminder of his deepest fears – those of which were being brought to life one by one. Perhaps, he mused as he vainly tried to scrape off the coral that was beginning to decorate his formerly pristine white undershirt, it was not his own psyche that plagued him, but that that the larger portion of his inner distress was simply yet another feature of this glamorous afterlife.

His head pounded with the side effects of excess thinking, and again the thought of something bitter and alcoholic to quiet the pain sparked in his mind.

_I do believe that's in part why you are in this situation to begin with, you imbecile,_ he thought scathingly. That too had happened quite a lot in the previous hours. If anything, James had always been his best punishment. In truth, the own guilt or shame he could make for himself far outweighed the sting of the lash that still pulsed there on his back. His captain had been harsh and thorough, more than likely his own agitation seeking it's satisfaction in pain. Every so often the salty water leaking through the brig's cracked walls would fall on him, sliding down skin and through shirt, hitting his wounds and bringing a new sting of pain. It was the only thing that had continuously pulled him out of his mind's wanderings.

One such drop of salt hit him now and he closed his eyes, a small hiss escaping, relishing the reprieve.

It was short lived though, his thoughts immediately straying again to his choices of the past. It was a constant rumination now, tracing just when and where his life had made the inevitable turn onto the road that led him to his current situation. It began, quite obviously, with Elizabeth Swann. At the flutter of the name across his mind his gut twisted, an indistinguishable feeling that was more than guilt, more than love, and nearing ... _anger_? He cringed, his body physically wrenching away from the idea, it alone making him feel as though he had just committed the ultimate betrayal.

_It's not her you're angry at. It's circumstance. Circumstance and that bloody Sparrow. _

_And Turner. _

The boy. The damn blacksmith for God's sake! And now, James guessed with a smile of smug satisfaction, someone in no better condition than he. He knew it was petty to loathe the man still, that his final kiss just a short day ago was the last revenge – no, justice - he would ever exact on the person who so innocently and subtly stole what he had wanted most. He wouldn't begrudge William his love for Elizabeth though – after all, not even he could fight his own feelings.

"Turner," he sighed, still angry but relenting, "may your future be brighter than my own." He thought again against his better judgment, and simply as an excuse, how perfect a bottle of rum – something, anything, really – would be at that moment. A toast to life not his.

There was a creaking against the far most side, a sickening breaking of what sounded like bone. He peered, eyes squinting against the dim lighting. There was something – someone? - moving there. James moved from his position sitting against the wall, trepidation setting in. The mass was covered in what he assumed would soon be adorning his own person. There was a face ... _Ah, another crew member in a cell. What a surprise. _He sat down again, disinterested and indifferent. There was something though at the back of his mind ...

That face. That face! He whipped his head around again to find two familiar eyes staring at him in what was obviously a face, the body still nestled against and apart of the ship. He was mumbling, low and desperate.

Though his entire countenance was deeply distorted with the evidence of his status as crew member, he knew it was the same man. The man who had run him through. Norrington grasped the fact, let it roll around in his consciousness for what felt like moments ... and nothing came. What was he to feel? Anger? Revulsion? Pity? Nothing was coming, and that was what alarmed him most. _Why don't you care?_

The man spoke louder, eyes searching the cell frantically, as if Norrington had become completely invisible rather than sitting not but 20 feet away from him. "Turner ... Turner " His voice was raspy and desperate, eyes drooping and watery. James simply stared at him.

"Up you go!" A voice shouted through the bars in front of him suddenly, the garish clang of metal against metal ringing his ears as the cell was opened, his captor clanking his sword against the bars laughing as another shipmate hauled James to his feet. The crew member in the wall retreated ever so slightly, but his words still came, rushed and low.

James brushed off the man holding him, barely sparing either a glance though he earned a contemptuous glare himself. He stopped dead in front of the one with the sword, a shark's head sitting atop his shoulders, a foul odor streaming off him. "Well, well Mr Norrington," he began, smiling, mocking, "did a night down here quiet that tongue of yours?" His mate was in the process of forcing James' hands in front of him, irons clamping around his wrists.

Norrington felt the bonds, tested them subtly, satisfied that they were much too strong and too tight to break free of – not that he had any intention of trying. "I suppose we'll have to wait and see." He smiled for the first time in days.

Neither of the other two men said any more, the larger grunting his frustration as he shoved Norrington through the hallway and towards the stairs. He stumbled but caught himself, treasuring the glimmer of satisfaction at their reaction. He owed them no respect, and if he was to spend lifetimes being ordered by them and those like them in any case, he at least could allow himself the dignity of denying them complete compliance.

They led him up the steps towards the deck, jeering and pushing. Below the pounding of boots against wood and grime, James heard the last echoes of the rambling man who had been his murderer, and only then did his smile fade.

"Turner. Turner! My _son._" 

James stood, waiting. His hands shifted against the steel that held him, and let out a long sigh, his back still straight and shoulders squared, a steady eye on the two crew members beside him. The fact that he had, inadvertently, acquainted himself with Turner's father left him stunned. He knew Will's father had to be aboard somewhere – he was the reason Will had searched for the heart beating aboard the very ship beneath his feet so hard.

The odds, however, that that very same man had ended his life and very nearly ended Elizabeth's as well – assuming she had indeed lived – was cruel, for all parties involved.

The door in front of him swung open violently and Norrington was once again greeted with the sight of Davy Jones. He looked even less pleased than he had last night. The man to his right greeted his captain and spoke first, "You wanted to see 'im, sir?"

Jones looked at him fleetingly, then his partner to the left, before waving his claw in a dismissing gesture. He stepped aside, looking down at James in front of him, silently ordering that he enter the cabin.

He surveyed his surroundings with the first step inside – it was apparent that the Captain no longer inhabited his quarters; his heart still lived in that old room. It seemed as though Mercer had occupied the Admiral's – _his_ – former lodgings, and Jones was sent to Mercer's. It was a simple room with but one porthole, the sea and sky beyond barely visible through the grime. A desk sat in the corner, a small bed that looked unused against the opposite wall. Jones stepped inside and toward the desk, the walls automatically shrinking to an even smaller size in comparison to the monster's height and presence.

"How did you find your new living quarters, Mr. Norrington? Comfortable, I presume?" Jones looked him in the eyes, his own shining with malicious intent. He smiled as he sat at his desk.

"I should ask you the same, _Captain _Jones. It would seem I'm not the only one living in places previously unaccustomed to."

Jones was silent a moment, his expression unchanging. The only sign of his irritation was the consistent twisting and clenching of the tentacles around his face. When he spoke his voice was low but biting. "How long do you expect to be here?"

"Forever." _Obviously._

"Oh _really?_ Because the locker is looking a right bit more fitting for you - if only to save my patience!"

That thought had not occurred to him. Davy Jones owned his soul presently, and should he force him into that strange hell of purgatory, Norrington could do nothing to stop it, and he assumed nothing to escape it. It would, in fact, ruin any and all plans of his – no future, no redemption – and it terrified him.

James tried to keep his thoughts and feelings from bleeding into his expression; Jones knowing exactly what kind of a threat he possessed would do him no good. Presently his Captain believed death was what James feared most; not the thought that he would miss driving a knife though the bastard's heart himself. Or settling his score with Beckett – his trail of lies and tyranny deserved to catch up with him. And if not by his hands, then by God he was going to be able to witness it.

The sudden surge of anger and darker feelings alarmed him as much as it did comfort him.

"I should think," Norrington began, "my punishment and humiliation would be reason enough to keep me aboard."

Jones scoffed. "My men do enjoy a good public display of discipline – I'm sure you must have noticed last night." Again his words sought to taunt. Again James focused his attention on keeping his emotions – and words – in check.

Jones began again before giving the other the chance to speak. "What I want from you," his voice raised as did his body, arms slamming into the desk in front of him, "is a cessation of this idiocy of yours! Your person is the last of which I need be concerned with -!" He stopped himself suddenly, as if he had said something he shouldn't have; something he regretted.

_So Beckett really is getting under that slimy skin of yours_, James thought, resisting a smile. It seemed they had at least one thing in common then.

"Idiocy, sir?" Norrington bypassed what Davy Jones so obviously wished to ignore.

"You'll learn to hold your tongue or you'll suffer for it. And in the future, should you see fit to release any prisoners on board my ship – _for it is still mine!_ - you'll do well to remember just where that has landed you! _Pointless_, all of it."

"Have you found Captain Swann yet?" Norrington asked, her title amusing and evoking a strong sense of pride in him. He would behave, he realized. He would comply with the Captain and when it suited him, even the men, if it meant avoiding the locker. But this one last time he could not ignore the will inside of him forcing his words.

Jones expression shifted to one of confusion, and James asked his question again. "_Have you found Captain Swann yet?_"

"No," was the reply, slow and irritated.

"Then it wasn't pointless."

They stared at one another for a moment, James calm and passive but strong, Jones cold and hard. "Enough," he finally bit, rounding the desk and stopping in front of Norrington. "There are chores that need to be done, and since you weren't able to perform them yesterday, you'll find double on your plate this morning." He looked toward the door, a clear sign it was time to end their little meeting.

Norrington turned, relieved, and headed toward the door and to his day's tasks. Jones' voice rang out with a laugh behind him just before the door slammed closed.

"You'll sing a different tune one day, Mr. Norrington! Nothing lasts forever – not your silly ideals, not even love."


	4. Chapter Three

**Author's Note:** Back from my vacation (which was quite nice) and I'm glad to have the chance to start writing again. Forgive the shortness of this chapter, but I had to decide where to end it and considering the next one (or two – I'm still undecided about that) will be rather lengthy, I really wanted to get this up to let you all know the story isn't abandoned!

For clarification, this chapter takes place the day/night before the meeting on the island 'showdown'.

As always, thank you so much for your reviews, your favoriting, and adding me to your alerts. You support my muse!

_**Chapter Three  
**_  
"S-s-sir?"

James looked up from his work, the unfinished tie of the braided rope between his hands hanging limply in his grasp. The sun beat in his eyes and the part of him that was, at the end of the day, still cold and dead crawled under the touch of living heat. He raised a hand then, shielding his eyes from the glare and felt a quick surge of surprise at the sight of the man before him. Surprise, and a violent humiliation.

The face was that of one of his officers, wigged and dressed in a clean and crisp naval uniform – the picture of his past. The man looking down at him nervously was none other than his Lieutenant, Thomas Lawson. He was fresh faced and considerably young for the position – proof that, like in the case of his prior position – sometimes who you knew allotted for promotions before sheer talent or any amount of deservedness.

The men held eyes for a moment before Norrington turned back to his task, guiltily, a conscious effort made to keep his back straight and shake off the slouch from his shoulders. His men would never be able to understand. _Better them to think me a coward fearing death than a traitor._

Norrington, for the first time in a very long while, suddenly felt very self conscious. It was pure vanity; a part of him that no matter his motive or mindset he would never fully be rid of – especially not in the company of his men._ Former men_, he reminded himself. It wasn't the same as looking like a drowned rat after a particularly nasty storm, nor coming on deck dirtied from hard work and war; what he was now was a product of his own selfish doing, as far as James could see. The lowest he could sink, in hopes that he might be able to rise even a fraction of an inch.

The Lieutenant's voice was low, his age clearly showing through his words and the hesitancy found there. To his credit he stood upright still, strong and straight, hands clasped behind his back. "The ... the men and I, sir ... We – we wanted you to know, sir, that we're sorry-"

"Don't be." Norrington sounded harsher than he meant to and immediately felt guilty. "Now get out of here before someone sees you," he tossed over his shoulder, sparring the officer one fleeting, noncommittal glance before pretending to busy himself again. James had occupied a corner of the ship out of the way of the other crew and officers, precisely so that he would not be noticed more than he had to. At the moment he would have gladly taken being thrown in the brig rather than having to face the pity of his former fellow officer in arms.

He saw out of the corner of his eye Thomas' arm twitch in what he imagined would have been the beginning of a salute. The man stifled the gesture though and his cheeks reddened with his own embarrassment. He instead granted Norrington a small bow before turning on his heel and heading towards what he assumed was Jones' heart and it's ever present guards.

Part of him wished that the boy would have stayed.

* * *

James' 48th hour aboard the ship was quickly approaching. Two days. Two days out of thousands, and so far he hadn't accomplished much more than be beaten, isolated, berated, and menial labor. _Well you're certainly striving toward that second chance_. The bitterness of the thought burnt the back of his throat, all the way down to his heart. 

The sun had sunk to the depths hours before and now there was nothing but a full moon and a thousand winking stars gazing down at him now as the vessel skirted through the waves, direction unknown to all but those necessary. The Captain had returned a short time ago after having left some time before sunset, brutal and angry, shouting orders and barking his frustration; the occasional Dutchman came flying out of his quarters from time to time, grim and just as angry as the Captain inside.

Norrington smiled. _It really is the small things that can make one's day.._.

He heard the shuffling of feet behind him, pairs of boot scuffing across the wooden floors and he turned his attention from the railing being mended before him to the commotion. All hands were on deck at the moment, preparing for a small squall that was looking to blow across later that night, though they were not the noise he heard. His men – _they're not your's anymore! _- were taking formation along the deck, readying themselves for something.

Norrington rolled his eyes at the gesture, fully expecting Mercer to walk down the center of the aisle that their bodies formed, head high and poised in his pompous manner. To his surprise though he lined himself with them, albeit at the head of the crowd.

"Round the port side!" One of the Dutchman shouted, a Pufferfish's spikes moving along his greasy and flaking skin as his large jaw moved to reveal decaying teeth. He slapped a pushing hand against the back of a crewman next to him, shoving him towards the side of the ship as he cracked a threatening blow to the floor beneath him with the flog held in his hand. "Prepare to be boarded, lads! Ship's comin' round!"

He was hauled to his feet and away from his task, pushed to the other side of the ship. He stumbled, careful to steer clear of the rows of navy men in the center of the deck. He was noticed though, some of the men seeing their departed Admiral for the first time since he'd joined the crew they now marshaled. He ignored the stares they so obviously dared out of the corners of their eyes and he imagined their horror at the sight of him, dirty and disheveled, riddled with nearly everything the bottom of the ocean had to offer. The seaweed streaking across his neck and down his back itched against his skin, the rain that had begun to fall plastering it against him in the places that it wasn't already cemented.

It took all Norrington had to meet their gaze; to not turn away as he had this morning, or rage at them that they didn't understand and _this is what I have to do!_

Mercer studied him before smiling humorlessly.

Truthfully, seeing the men lined up there, scurrying under their present commander, made him feel as if he were lucky. At the end of the day, the truth was that he had died because of his _defiance_ of that power – something he doubted few of those men, as brave as they were, would ever have the honor of doing.

He pushed himself against the back railing, amongst the crew gathered there and behind the line of naval men. The _Dutchman_ rocked as a ladder was lowered to meet the longboat waiting in the waters below. Two men stepped on deck – one was dressed plainly, another attired in a RN uniform and strikingly familiar.

_Gillette . _Norrington felt a flood of remorse that one of his most trusted officers had been dragged into this mockery of authority.

Both Gillette and the other nameless crewman stood to the side of the ladder, giving the ship and crew the once over. The thump of Jones' stride reverberated throughout the ship not but a second later. He stood close, clearly intimidating the previous two passengers with his presence.

The last of the men to step from the ship righted himself, taking his time to pull against the wrinkles of his vest and waistcoat before dusting a speck of debris from his right shoulder. Considerably shorter he carried himself with a heavy confidence as he lifted his head to stare into the pale eyes of the dead Captain before him, now a slave on his own ship.

Beckett.

"You left rather abruptly this evening. I thought it best we have one last chat about our course of action tomorrow. I would hate for there to be any misunderstandings." He smiled, disingenuous, and James couldn't help but bring to mind the picture of a snake.

Jones scoffed dismissively, eying his antagonist for a moment before speaking. "Aye. And is your young guest Mr. Turner not to be joining us again?"

"He's presently busy." Beckett shifted his eyes to those gathered around him, appraisingly. "I think it best we move this to a more private setting. Mercer! Get these men back to their posts, and fetch the chest, will you?" All the men aboard instantly shuffled into action.

James felt a chill run down up spine, unease and a hot anger building against the base of his neck.


	5. Chapter Four

**Author's Note**: The last chapter. I bet you thought I vanished off the face of the earth? Well, I might as well have. My fandom interests changed, I got tired of writing, real life got in the way, etc. Excuses, excuses; but I noticed people still favorited this fic, or put it on alert; I still got emails and nice comments on my livejournal. This was my first serious multi-chaptered endevour and the fact that people still seem to read it and want the ending has motivated me to finish it, because you deserve it.

Part of my problem with getting this done was the fight sequence. I didn't want to just retell it, as I'm sure we all know what happened. Then again, I couldn't skip over it. So, I hope you forgive it's brevity. I made it disjointed to try and convey the fast pace and rush of it.

I'm probably doing you a disservice here – after all this time, your imagined endings are probably better than my own but ... well ... c'est la vie.

* * *

_**Chapter Four**_

The rest of the night crept away in a tumult of questions that James had neither the heart or the ability to answer. Where Davy Jones had disappeared earlier remained a mystery, as did the fact that William Turner of all people seemed to have been there and conspiring with he and Beckett. And whatever he and Jones were presently discussing he could imagine didn't bode well – for any parties involved.

It had been an hour since the two men vanished inside the cabin, officers lining outside the door while those on guard duty with the heart brought it towards the room in question, various _Dutchman_ crew members eying them with a watery contempt that did it's best to terrify.

James kept to the sidelines, the watchmen effectively stopping any half-cocked daredevil plan at eavesdropping he might have been able to come up with. The room had only one door, and no other sides at which to pry against. Any sound that could be heard stopped short of the crew's ears in between the sound of the sea and their own work. There was the cabin beneath it though...

Norrington cast a subtle glance over his shoulder, then down at the stairs leading below deck. He grabbed a mop and bucket nearby before beginning to swab down the planks in the immediate area. It was paranoia he knew that was making him feel as though all eyes where on him; that no one really believed he was just doing chores. Pushing the thought away he inched toward the stairway. He gave one final look before making it toward the lower decks.

It was mainly deserted, most either above or below in the kitchens or living quarters, and Norrington smiled at his first spot of luck in what seemed like years. He stowed away the mop and bucket behind the stairs before moving toward the back of the ship. The walls creaked around him as it bobbed in the water, moonlight streaming in through the portholes and cracks. The cabin loomed above him, waiting, and James felt his mouth go dry.

There were barrels and crates packed against the walls – the remains of the lootings and destruction of the ships that had found there way across the path of Beckett. Norrington searched the ceiling above him, listening, looking for an opening. It seemed quiet, all except for the scuffle of the crewman aboard and he felt for a moment extremely foolish. _This isn't going to work..._

"_...course not!_" There was the boom of the Captain's voice then, muffled through wood but still recognizable. A loud bang followed, as though someone had hit a wall or desk. James' spirits lightened and without a moments hesitation he began cleaning off a crate near a corner, allowing him to stand on it. He tried with all his might to press against the wood against him, the smell of salt, sea, and something much more musty assaulting him at his nearness.

"You will listen to me. They're at Shipwreck Cove by now, no doubt. The boy..," the ship lurched again and Norrington whispered a violent curse as Beckett's words were indistinguishable, "...the continued safety of Ms. Swann. And his father, as you know. I'm not asking for your compliance, I'm demanding it, actually. ... tomorrow, to the east, at midday ... not in the habit of negotiating with Pirates but if it positions them where we need them then be so be it. Have this ship at the ready."

James' gut twisted at the mention of Elizabeth. _So she's alive_, he thought, the mere notion of it near bringing him to tears of sheer relief. This wasn't all for nothing then; he had succeeded in at least one thing. His happiness was short lived though as the menace and calculations behind Beckett's words settled a deep unease inside him, his intuition pulling at his mind with something he couldn't quite but his finger on.

There was a growl and a jumble of speech Norrington assumed was the Captain's low and agitated response before Beckett announced their conversation was through and he heard the faint rattle of a door being slammed.

He barely had time to register just what he had heard before a hand gripped him by the shoulder and hauled him off the crate beneath his feet. He landed on his back with a thud, the wood seeming to splinter beneath him, the coral that lined his spine pushing in against his flesh with such a sharp pain he was sure he had to have been bleeding. James blinked his eyes, darkness blurring at the edges before he looked up to meet his attacker.

"Captain's business, not ours. Captain's. ... None of yours." Bill Turner leaned over him, eyes glossy and searching. The starfish clinging to his jaw twitched as he spoke, his words jumbling together.

James shifted against the floor, a quiet burn of anger settling into his soul in a way he knew he should have felt guilty for. Madness or no this man was slowly becoming the bane of his existence. He opened to mouth to speak before he heard the clatter of boots against wood as another figure came down the steps from above and rounded the corner, stopping at the sight of he and his attacker. _Soon to be the one attacked had we not been interrupted_, he thought violently.

"That's enough, now!" Came the voice of the man, gun ready and aimed. "I'll have you men come with me no-... _James_?" Skeptical, surprised, and a ring of disgust was evident.

Norrington lifted his head from the floor to look at his addresser before promptly letting it fall back against the wood with a resigned thud and a sigh: half exhausted, half ashamed.

"Lieutenant Gillette. Good to see you."

* * *

The metal bars of the brig clanked together before whining shut. Gillette stood on the other side looking at James with something nearing pity as he pocketed the keys.

"You're here because if I report what you were doing God knows what they'd do to you, and I owe you too much." He said it as if it pained him; picking sides between a former friend and his current authority. "The rest of the men are busy getting Beckett off the ship. You're lucky."

James stared at him, lazily, blankly.

"... Say something!" Gillette pleaded.

"There's nothing to say. My reasons are my own."

"Then there's nothing I can do for you except make you stay out of trouble. The other one's been called above by Jones, so you'll share the cell with yourself." He turned to leave, a mumbled apology falling on deaf ears.

James had to get out, because whatever was going to happen, it was going to happen soon.

And he was determined to be in the middle of it.

The sun rose not too long afterwards, the first rays of light peeking over the horizon in a golden glow that illuminated the dark waters around them. James peered out the ship through the dirtied window and over the side, his ears still burning from what he had heard. It seemed suddenly all so clear as he gazed down at the water, itself crystalline blue and deep despite the grim on the barrier he pressed against, that the moment he had been dreading was approaching.

Beckett had just left with Gillette and the other men, the small row boat carrying them back to the _Endeavor_. By midday the parlay the he assumed would signal the beginning of the end would be underway. The battle that was clearly inevitable following soon after.

Norrington didn't pretend to understand it all – the only thing he knew for sure was that the end of the day things would be different. He hoped for Elizabeth's sake at least the cards would fall in her favor.

* * *

The light behind his eyes darkened. An inky black covering his thoughts. Shouts above. The ship lurched.

James awoke with a gasp, sprawled on the floor, one of the crew bellowing at him as they opened the cell's door. "Get up, get up! It's war!" He turned and ran back up the steps, the door swinging behind him.

Norrington heard the roar of waves and canon filtering from above, the sky dark and ominous out the porthole to his left. It had already begun.

He hurried out of the cabin, feet nearly catching as he ran up the steps. A soldier slammed into him as he cleared the threshold to the deck, rain and blood splattering against him in a cold rush. He caught the dying man in his arms; another faceless one lost it seemed as he looked around him. He helped him collapse to the floor, a rush of guilt running through him at the death rattle; the man's sword hanging limply from his slackening grasp.

Something clicked then at the image of the sword; at the cries around him. He looked out to the sea. They were going under, another ship that he recognized instantly swirling with them. Norrington took the sword to his side. _Now or never. Isn't this what you wanted?_

A pistol clicked against the backdrop of the two ships smacking together, masts locking in a violent lean. He was vaguely aware that above him was the heart caught in a duel that he had nothing to do with anymore, and never really did in the first place. "Don't try it," came the voice; familiar and smug. James looked up at Mercer's face, the water hitting like pricks of ice against his skin. He was genuinely surprised the git had lived this long without the men picking him off in the heat of battle.

"Mercer."

"Convenient, isn't it?" he asked, pleasure rolling through his words despite his shiver at the cold. "Just can't win, can you." He took a step closer, his mouth opening as if to speak again before the crash of something to his right distracted him. A tentacle wrapped tightly around a key. Norrington saw the eyes of the man before him widen in surprise before he made to grab after it.

He took a step before the groan rose in his throat, gurgling from his mouth as in contorted in pain.

James held fast to the hilt of the sword, twisting it as it tore inside Mercer, a dark red gush sweeping across the planking as the rain washed it into the seams. They both fell to their knees, Norrington pulling out the weapon before letting the body drop hitting with a dull and dead thud, pairs of duelers fighting around them as though the world had not just stopped; as though another man had not just died.

"Convenient, isn't it?," James whispered.

He lashed out then at the man next to him, chopping the coral from his back before running him through. Pirates swung onto the ship now, the battle doubling. He climbed a level to the fighting above, thoughts blank and resolute. There was nothing but this; nothing but the cold and the thought that maybe this was helping. That maybe Elizabeth would live. That maybe he was doing the right thing.

Will was there, cutting down one man after the next, wrestling with his father. He wasn't surprised to see him. Will seemed to follow him like a curse – why would this instant be any exception? Jones and –_Oh, God_ – Sparrow were at it now on the deck, off the masts, chasing one another in a farce of combat.

A cut on his arm then; the sting pulling at him, making him focus. Another one down in the next moment, anger strengthening his limbs in this blind rush. Confusion plainly etched the men's faces, distorted as they were, before he hit their blade with his own. The wind against his ears was painful.

" ... you'll see no mercy from me!" Jones was shouting above the wind, his voice catching and carrying. He nearly paid no mind except -

- "That's why I brought this!" Metal against metal and his heart sank. Elizabeth. He rushed against the throng fighting against him. Too late as she hit the floor, Jones stalking closer, swords assaulting him at all sides. Will was going to get to her – he had to, didn't he?

A clawed hand brought an axe down on him, his eyes only leaving the horror before him long enough to grab it from the air above his neck, twisting the arm as he angled it at his attacker before pulling it free and bringing the hit home and across the monster's neck.

Jones was on her now. Will was going to be too late.

The axe flew in an arc, hitting the Captain square in the knee, the large bulk faltering with a growl of pain an instance before Elizabeth's misfortune. He looked above, directly at Norrington for the accused, his eyes sweeping past him as it did so many of his other crew members; he was just another man, just another monster.

Will saw though. As he thrust steel through Jones, he and James met eyes. He saw the confusion there, the relief, but it was gone in an instant. He had something larger at hand.

James felt his back hit the deck with splintering force, a sword to his throat, his mind cursing the poor bastard above him. He needed to know what was happening! He needed to be there!

Elizabeth was shouting. The lock on the ships broke in a crack of wood; the _Dutchman_ was flying to the right now, the ungodly force of the whirlpool sucking them in.

Elizabeth was screaming. _Please, no.  
_  
Norrington pushed upwards, throwing the now lifeless form off him, crawling on twisting hands to the railing. His breathing hitched at the sight: Will run through with an instrument that was sickeningly familiar; Jack holding the heart, knife poised.

It happened so fast then, that turning of fate. The scuffle of the man man and the Captain, Jack moving closer to the bleeding boy. Something happened ... the heart ... the heart.

The rhythm stalled inside of him, inside the ship. Something went black in his mind. _The heart.  
_  
They were under the water suddenly, something changed inside him. When the ship broke the sea the sky was blue. It was over, he knew it, and yet he felt nothing. A new Captain; a new soul damned for eternity. What did it matter? Not even as Beckett burned, shouts of the victorious lighting around him, the throb of the canon fire still shaking the boat and the water beneath it, did he feel anything.

Not even as the scales and the muck slid from him, flesh visible again.

* * *

The new Captain of the _Flying Dutchman_ returned the instant the day's sun died, whatever otherworldly magic that controlled he and his crew speeding him to his place of rest for the next ten years.

James sat above deck, watching the water, the green flash of another world barely registering in his consciousness. His hands played one over the other, getting used to the feel of his own skin again– as it was, unmarred except for callouses rather than barnacles. He was a whole man again. As whole as he would ever be.

Footsteps stalked behind him, slow and hesitant. He didn't even have to guess who it was.

The knowledge that Will had married Elizabeth, had indeed spent their deserved wedding night with her hours before hurt him less than he thought it would. Will was where her heart lied; he was her happiness.

And if he continued to desire anything in the world, it was her happiness alone. The thought made him smile, slow and bittersweet.

"Captain Turner," he began, low and rumbling, "I do believe one doesn't have the need to hide on their own ship." He stood and turned to face him.

There was a moment of awkward silence as each sized the other up. James recognizing that the boy, after all he had fought through, had grown into the man before him. There was a wisdom and age behind his brown eyes now; something James could do nothing but respect. Will likewise noticed the changes in the man before him, but worried they were not for the better. For all the time he had known him, Norrington had been nothing but sure of himself. Now, an encompassing self doubt had manifested itself into his very countenance.

"You did a great service today, though I doubt you need hear it from me," Will stated taking a step forward. Norrington scoffed.

"Indeed."

"You held your own. You gave Mercer a deserving end, a man of whom we can both agree had it coming a long while. Governor Swann is avenged. And you protected Elizabeth – don't think I didn't see that, or that I won't be grateful for the rest of my days. Those of which," Will smiled slightly, a sadness lacing his words, "have been extended considerably." James considered the praising words, his spirit fighting to lift with them but his mind refusing the reprieve.

Will could see the thoughts working behind his eyes and broke the silence that continued to linger. He had a thought, but before he acted on it, he wanted a question answered. "Why did you agree to Jones' offer in the first place?"

James looked at him, surprised. He supposed that Will would have understood – he thought that perhaps, just perhaps, everyone would; if not to simply spare him the task of explaining himself. "As a punishment," Norrington whispered darkly.

Will's brows furrowed in confusion and James continued, more heated that he had intended. "I was a traitor. I deserved my fate. People – innocent people – have died because my selfish actions. I placed you all in danger. I helped Beckett when he isn't deserving of more than the fiery end he met today. I needed -," he stopped and considered his next words for a moment, "- I... needed the chance to fix things. To _try_. I didn't deserve the peace of a grave and what better way to start a life of atonement than signing off on an eternity of servitude? I figured I had a better chance to regain some honor by living forever in the hope of changing things than laying down my life."

It was the answer Will expected and he shook his head, "You thought you were doing the right thing. I can't blame you – it's who you are. You were born to uphold the law, I think. It's in your blood." Will stared at James hard before continuing. "And Beckett _was_ the law. You seek atonement and you've found it. Elizabeth is alive and Port Royale is free of the tyranny Beckett symbolized, saving the rest of the Caribbean at the very least from following suit. Those who died have not died in vain because of the battle here today. A battle that you aided in."

"Be that as it may," Norrington conceded, feeling a simultaneous sweep of relief and guilt filling him at Will's argument, "it will never be enough." He turned again to look at the rolling waves hitting the sides of the ship, trying to find some comfort in the familiar sound and sway beneath him.

"But it is a start, isn't it? Isn't that what you wanted? The chance alone? Well here it is, James Norrington," Will laid a steady hand on the other man's shoulder, his voice determined and showing his learned strength, "_I set you free_; to do with your life as you wish. To take your second chance and do with it what you will." He stepped away and from his belt pulled from it's sheath his sword.

Norrington felt a string pull at it his heart. It was _his_ sword. The symbol of everything he had fought to achieve and had bartered away his soul to loose. He was, for one of the very few times in his life, completely speechless. The idea that he was free, that he had a second chance, and that that sword would be at his side was a life he never imagined he would have again.

Will noticed the unsure expression on his friend's – _yes_, he thought, _after everything he _is_ a friend_ – face and felt a twinge of remorse. He knew that no matter what James went on to do, no matter what he had done today, he would never forgive himself for his train of past transgressions. It was Will's hope that one day though, he would be able to accept the good he had done and would do, and the good that would come to him, with more pride than a feeling of unworthiness.

"I...," James began, uncertain of what to say. This was so unlike any of his promotions, so unlike anything he had ever experienced before. It was the beginning of a life he was afraid to take, because the prospect of failure was so great. Who was to say he wouldn't wind up again in Tortuga in a month's time, drowning in his own pity and stupidity?

Will seemingly read his thoughts, and turning the sword over to place in his hands, he bowed smiling, offering it, "Take it. You'll do the right thing, I'm sure of that by now, as is anyone who has known you. You can always be trusted to do the right thing."

Norrington swallowed what felt like sawdust as a tentative hand reached to grasp the ornamented hilt, the weight of it falling into his hands effortlessly, comfortably. It settled against his fingers in a grip that was _right_, and James felt a breath of new life fill him. He would try, and he would succeed. There was a world of good waiting, a world that he could be apart of. He realized then that there was no right way, no quick way, to undoing what he had done. That it was going to be a hard and long road before he ever felt that he had done enough to erase his sins. His journey consisted of betrayal, his own death, fighting against that which he had always been taught was to be upheld, and now here he was, on the brink of yet another rebirth. _The long way around to redemption,_ he mused.

"So again, James Norrington," Will said with a smile, "what are you going to do with your second chance?"

"Live," James replied, bowing his head for a moment before he met the other man's eyes, "I'm going to live."

* * *

**Author's Notes: **There you have it. Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed, added the story to lists or their favorites, and sent encouragement my way. I had a sequel planned originally, but we'll see what happens. 

Until then, let your imaginations do the writing: I'm sure there will be plenty of guilt, drama, angst, romance followed by misunderstanding and eventually a happy ending.

Like he deserves.

Much love.


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